


Count Lotor's Guest

by rinthegreat



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dracula, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, VLD Trick or Treat Anarchy 2017, Vampires, also i tagged violance to be safe, i just really wanted to do a dracula AU don't judge me, this ship was basically begging for one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 23:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12543856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinthegreat/pseuds/rinthegreat
Summary: Lance McClain travels deep into the mountains of Transilvania to help the mysterious Count Galra purchase an estate in London.





	Count Lotor's Guest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpecterQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecterQueen/gifts).



> So I did ToT Anarchy! This is a gift to [starchildkeith](http://starchildkeith.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr because they said they were totes cool with Lancelot. A Dracula AU was made for these two tbh. I only used the first section of the book, set in Transilvania, because of plot/time reasons. If you've read Dracula, you might catch a lot of little Easter eggs hidden in here from it (as well as the moment where the plot diverges). I had so much fun putting all those in here!
> 
> This is really long, and it took forever to edit. I did have my beta look over it for glaring issues, and she helpfully pointed them out, but ultimately I did all the editing. Please forgive any errors! :)
> 
> Note: a solicitor in this context is a lawyer

Thunder rolls in the sky, drowning out the sound of the carriage creaking its way up the path. It’s been a long ride from where the train dropped him off – a platform that had been crumbling away to the point that Lance hadn’t been sure it was a real stop – and yet it’s still not over. He pushes aside the velvet curtain and peers out the window for the third time in as many minutes. Dusk is falling, the waning sun casting orange light and long shadows across the mountain range.

From what Lance can see, they’re still tottering along the road by the edge of a cliff, carriage swaying with every stone under them. He swears they’ve passed this stretch of land five times now.

The driver has yet to say a word to him outside the threatening greeting he’d given when they met. He has a hat pulled low over his face, enough that Lance can’t make out his features aside from a sharp, angled chin. With the shadows lengthening over the mountain range, he doubts he’ll see it now.

Lance keeps the curtain drawn back, watching the last few rays of sun disappear behind the mountains. Just then, loud howls echo, bouncing off the cliffs around them. The driver snaps the reins, and Lance is thrown back against the cushion behind him as the carriage picks up its pace.

Coming here had seemed like a good idea; Shiro had business to attend with the mysterious Count Galra, and had asked Keith or Lance to take over for him while he was busy in London. In the end, Lance had gotten the job. He’d been ecstatic; finally, he could prove himself a valuable asset for the firm. Finally, Shiro would delegate him more responsibilities, and Lance could build his reputation.

Now, though, as the howls draw closer and closer to the racing carriage, Lance isn’t sure this was his best idea. No one in London had known anything about the Count, and no one in Transylvania was interested in telling Lance anything aside from giving him thinly veiled warnings to not go to the castle, especially not tonight of all nights.

Maybe he should’ve heeded those instead of brushing them off as rural superstitions.

A howl sounds closer than ever, right next to the carriage. In perhaps his second stupidest move – the first being his agreement to come here at all – Lance sticks his head out the window. Snarling teeth snap at his face immediately. The only thing that saves him is the carriage itself: it jerks sharply to the right, causing Lance to fall back in and slide across the seat until he smacks into the wall on the other side. His teeth slam together, biting down hard enough on his tongue that he can taste blood.

Almost instantly, the carriage stops.

Lance clatters to the floor with a groan. The howls sound all around him, and Lance thinks _this time I’m done for_ , but then a harsh voice sounds louder than the wolves. He strains to hear, but the words must be in Romanian, because Lance can’t understand them for the life of him. He scrambles up on his knees and pushes aside the velvet drape, looking out the left window again.

The driver is standing on the edge of the cliff, arms raised. The wolves are all crouched around him, looking ready to leap. For a moment, Lance fears for the man. But then the driver’s head turns, and Lance catches a glint of red. He jerks back into the carriage, irrationally afraid that he’d been seen. The wolves, too, scatter with their tails between their legs.

What kind of man can control beasts?

Lance continues spying, watching the driver slink back to the carriage. He’s draped in a dark cape, cap still pulled low over his face. Lance can’t make out anything – can’t see the glint he would’ve sworn existed.

This time, when the carriage moves, it rocks back and forth softly, like a cradle. It creaks its way along the dirt path, no longer making Lance feel as though he’s about to be thrown over the cliff. In almost no time at all, the carriage creaks to a halt. Lance, who had been too afraid to look out the window again after nearly being eaten by a wolf earlier, finally peeks out. He can’t make out anything aside from a long, dark forest.

The door behind him opens.

Lance turns and steps out, barely able to make out the castle in front of him in the darkness. A few torches illuminate the enormous doors, ornate with carvings Lance can’t decipher in this light. He barely hears the sound of his bag setting down next to him before the crack of the reins resonates through the air and the carriage disappears, taking the mysterious driver with it.

He pulls a letter out of his pocket, even though it’s too dark outside for him to read the words. He doesn’t need to be able to read them; he’s already memorized the words. _My driver will pick you up early evening from the platform. Take the train at 15:00. Yours, Count Galra._

The driver wouldn’t have been there to meet him if the note meant tomorrow. And yet…no one is here to greet him at the entrance. Lance hovers just outside the door until he hears a howl in the forest.

With a shiver, he grabs his bag and pushes open the heavy door, not even bothering to knock.

The door clangs shut behind him, and though Lance would’ve ordinarily found them terrifying, he finds comfort in the fact that they are heavy enough to keep the wolves at bay. Safety assured, Lance sets his bag by the door and steps further in. Lamps line the walls, casting the hallway in a dim light. It’s brighter in here than outside, but the flames are too dim, lamps too far apart for Lance to be able to see properly.

“Hello?” he asks, looking around nervously. Despite being in from the outside, it’s still cold. Almost cold enough that Lance could see his breath, but not quite. “Hello?” He tries again.

A head peeks out of the door at the end of the hall. “Mr. McClain?” The voice has a velvety texture, deep and accented but somehow still soft. Lance heads towards the person there, and lays eyes on the owner of the voice.

He nearly has to pick his jaw off the ground.

“Are you?” Lance squeaks, voice barely coming out. He clears his throat and tries again. “Are you Count Galra?”

The Count – for it must be the Count – nods his head. “Yes. Come in, you must be hungry.” He gestures into the room, and Lance walks into a dining hall more brightly lit and warmer than the rest of the castle.

Inside the hall, Lance finally gets the chance to take in the Count’s full appearance. He’s even more attractive in the light. His hair is stark white, falling past his shoulders in a tight braid, similar to the ones Lance had seen on the locals down the mountain. His face, too, is pale and angular, making Lance wonder if that’s a trait of people on this side of the world. But there’s something about him that strikes Lance; the Count is unspeakably handsome. Almost too beautiful to be human.

Lance feels suddenly underprepared.

“I apologize for not knocking,” he starts, straining for propriety. Lance is painfully aware that he’s still wearing his dirty shoes. “The wolves were howling.”

“Yes,” the Count replies smoothly. “The wolves do get especially violent at night.” He motions with a long fingered hand to the table in the center of the room. There are plates made up in front of the far chair, waiting for Lance. “Please, you must be hungry. Forgive me for not joining you; I have already eaten.”

Lance makes his way to the far side of the room, uncomfortably aware of how he’s being watched by someone who is far more beautiful than he is. What if he bled on himself earlier in the carriage? His hair, too, is probably a mess from how often he was tossed around. Does he smell of sweat and travel?

“Please take a seat. You must be tired,” the Count instructs in his smooth voice.

He sits in the chair at the head of the table, relaxing back. The spread in front of him looks delicious. He glances up at the Count, who is standing opposite him, but the man motions for him to eat.

Being watched while eating should be strange, but the food is flavorful beyond anything Lance has had – certainly in London – and he stops caring. He hasn’t eaten anything since early this morning, the trip having taken longer than expected, and he’s absolutely starving. Despite it looking like enough food to feed his entire family, Lance ends up eating half of it before sipping the deep red wine.

“I hope dinner was to your liking,” the Count remarks, head cocked. He watches Lance as if he’s a complicated puzzle. Though, Lance supposes, the Count probably hasn’t met many Englishmen before.

“It was delicious,” he assures. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“If you do not mind then, I would like to show you to your rooms before we speak in the study. Assuming you are not too tired to do so.”

Lance shakes his head adamantly. “I can stay up and speak with you about the paperwork and the house you’ll be moving into.” A good solicitor is ready to conduct business when the customer demands it, Shiro always says, no matter how tired or irritable they may feel.

“Very well,” the Count agrees. “Please, follow me.”

He leads Lance out of the room and down the hallway, away from the large double doors. It isn’t until they’re ascending the grand staircase that Lance remembers he left his bag in front of them. “Ah, my bag…”

“Not to worry, Mister McClain. Your effects were already delivered to your room.”

The Count’s English is excellent, far better than Lance would’ve expected, even if it is a hint more formal than Lance would like directed towards him from someone so handsome. He’d been concerned he’d have to speak in German the entire time, and though he’s capable, he’s hardly fluent. “Your English is quite good,” he compliments as they reach the third floor.

“Hardly,” the Count argues. “I have learned from literature, not reality. I assure you, I could use more practice.”

“I would be more than happy to help you practice,” Lance offers. He wouldn’t mind having an excuse to hear the Count’s velvety voice speak about more than just business.

The Count stops in front of a door and turns to look straight in Lance’s eyes. His vision is almost hypnotic, but Lance would gladly drown in his eyes. “I would like that very much,” the Count says smoothly. He opens the door they’re standing in front of, finally breaking off his gaze. Lance shakes the ghost of a feeling off himself. “This is your room for the duration of your stay. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to ask for it.”

“Shouldn’t I ask your servants instead?” Lance asks. Given the fact that he’s meeting with a Count in his castle, he would be surprised if there weren’t servants. The thought of going to the master of the house with little needs, like a wash rag, is more than a little embarassing.

“I would not be a good host if I could not accommodate my guest,” the Count argues. He gestures to the room. “Please make yourself comfortable. I will be in the study on the second floor when you are ready. The lamps will lead you there.” Lance steps inside obediently, and the Count bows before closing the door, leaving him alone.

As promised, his bag and effects are already in the room. Somehow, the servants had managed to sneak past the dining room to carry it up here. He pulls out his journal first, opening it to a clean page and writing down every moment from when he got on the train until now. He’d made a promise with Hunk, his best friend, that he would record everything. None of them, not even Shiro, had been this far east before. Hunk had expressed excitement over the new foods – Lance already has three local recipes just for him – the fashions – which he has attempted to recreate with crude sketches – and the people – whom he has recorded diligently. Katie, sister to the firm’s partner, had too asked for notes, but she had been more interested in the architecture. Lance has done his best to draw renditions of some of the more interesting things he’s seen, but he has a feeling she’ll be sorely disappointed.

Journal entry complete, Lance sets the book aside and changes into a set of clothes that isn’t dirtied from travel. He goes into the bathroom to wash his face, pleased to see that he doesn’t have any blood or dust there. He fixes his hair too, as best as he can without wetting it down. He doesn’t want to look like a ragamuffin in front of the Count, whose entire being seems to radiate beauty.

Eventually, he gives up, brushing it off as a failed attempt. He looks a little worse for the wear, not completely unkempt, but certainly not as heavenly as the Count. Lance has no plans to woo the Count; he doesn’t even know his name. Besides, he is here for business and that would be completely unprofessional.

Lance leaves his room after grabbing the necessary papers and makes his way down the hall to the staircase. The Count had said he’d be in the study on the second floor, and the lamps would guide him there. Sure enough, the lamps are only lit on one side of the staircase. Lance follows them to an ornate door. Really, the entire castle is ornate. He takes a mental note to try and sketch at least one of these doors for Katie before he leaves.

The Count is inside when Lance pushes open the door. He hasn’t changed and is simply seated in a chair with a book in his lap. He looks up when Lance enters, closing the book with a snap. “Mister McClain, welcome. I hope the room is to your liking.”

“It’s a good room,” Lance agrees, walking forward. “Did you want to go over things tonight?”

“Of course.” the Count stands smoothly, gesturing to Lance to follow him back to the large table behind himself. “What is the expression? ‘There is no moment like the now’?”

Lance smiles, holding back a laugh. “It’s actually ‘there’s no time like the present’.”

“Ah.” The Count gives a small bow. “Please, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Lance promises. He sets the papers on the table, taking a seat across from the Count. “Let’s get started.”

They go through the paperwork for the house the Count is buying in London, focusing on the questions the Count has. He’s astute, unsurprisingly well educated, and asks questions that forces Lance to pull every bit of training he’s had. Lance doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until he feels the shift of the air, the sharp cold that comes with the arrival of dawn. The Count notices it as well.

“My apologies,” he says as he stands. “I kept you too long. You must still be tired from your journey. Please, feel free to return to your rooms. I have some business to attend to today, so we will not be able to talk again until tonight.”

Lance stands, suddenly aware of just how _tired_ he is. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice sore from speaking for so long. He gathers his papers together haphazardly, knowing he needs to go through and sort them later. He’d written several pages of notes he needs to read through again, and everything will need to be organized. But for now, he just wants to get to bed.

“Can you find your way back?” The Count asks.

“Yes,” Lance nods. He has a fairly good sense of direction, and his room isn’t far. Even with the exhaustion, he _should_ be able to find his way back.

He does, fairly easily. Everything is exactly as he left it – the first rays of sunlight stream through the window onto his bed. Lance doesn’t bother closing the curtains though. He kicks off his shoes as soon as his door closes and drops his papers to the floor. He crosses the short distance between himself and the bed before tilting forward. He lands face down on the mattress and immediately passes out.

\---

The Count is still away on business in the afternoon when Lance finally pulls himself out of bed. He contents himself with taking a bath and changing into a clean set of clothes before wandering down. Despite not seeing or hearing anything, he decides to start with the dining room. He doesn’t know the castle well enough to know where to go for food other than there.

Luckily for him, there’s a spread on the table where he’d eaten last night. He approaches and finds a note waiting for him. _I will be out until this evening. Please make yourself at home. Yours, Count Galra_

Lance eats his fill before taking the Count’s advice and wandering around the castle. It’s huge, as expected, but most doors are locked. He doesn’t try to force them open; the Count’s been a kind host so far, and Lance doesn’t want to insult him.

In the end, though, without anyone to speak to, he ends up back in his room, making sketches and notes in his journal for Hunk and Katie.

It isn’t until later in the evening that he comes out. His stomach urges him down to the dining room, where the Count is already seated, waiting for him. There are plates waiting for him, just like the night before. The servants on this side of the world must be prized for their way to stay silent and unseen.

The Count looks up when he enters, setting down the papers he’d been reading. “Ah, Mister McClain. Dinner is ready.” Lance nods, taking the seat across from the Count. Once again, the food is only there for him. As if sensing Lance’s curiosity, the Count speaks up. “Forgive me, I ate while I was out.”

“Thank you,” Lance replies, digging in.

“Did you have a pleasant day?”

Lance nods. “Your castle is enormous,” he says before realizing that could’ve come across as an insult.

The Count doesn’t seem offended. He nods, wearing a wry smile. “Indeed. It is easy for one to get lost.” Something in the way he says it makes a shiver run up Lance’s spine. It almost sounds like a threat. He finishes his meal in silence, and the Count once again leads him to the study to work.

The pattern repeats for a whole week until the Count knows the laws surrounding his new property as well as Lance himself. Indeed, he seems to know more about the import and export laws than Lance does, though there are still a few nuances Lance is able to help with, having reviewed them several times before leaving London, having expected something like this.

They go over a few things, but tonight, the Count seems more interested in hearing about London than anything else.

“What is the weather like there?” he asks.

Lance chuckles before reigning himself in. The Count is asking in earnest. “It’s a bit bleak,” Lance answers honestly. “It rains a lot, and we don’t often see the sun.”

“And yet it is heavily populated?”

“It’s the heart of civilization,” Lance says as if that explains everything.

The Count shifts his weight. “And will I…stand out?”

“Obviously,” Lance says without thinking. He rewinds when the Count winces. “Not in a bad way, of course! I simply mean that you clearly seem noble. People will recognize that about you. Besides, your features are a little different than your average Englishman. You’re” – _gorgeous_ – “exotic.”

“Ah,” the Count nods, not seeming convinced.

“But you’ll always have me if you need anything at all,” Lance placates.

“As a friend?” the Count asks.

 “Of course.”

The Count averts his gaze, and if Lance could guess, he would say the Count is flustered. “Thank you, Mister McClain.”

And oh, no, that won’t do. Not only is Lance impossibly endeared by that, he also can’t handle listening to himself be called ‘Mister McClain’ anymore. It sounds so formal and boring and he’d started to think that he and the Count had grown closer over this week. “Please,” he says, “if we are friends, you should call me by name. It’s Lance.”

“Lance,” the Count tests the name, unaware of how it drew shivers up and down Lance’s spine. “That is a good name.”

“And yours?” Lance prompts. The Count hesitates. “If we’re going to be friends, I really should know your name.”

“Lotor,” the Count replies. “Though I am not used to being called that.”

The deeper meaning isn’t lost to Lance, but he chooses to ignore it for now. “You have a good name too,” he compliments.

“Thank you,” the Count – Lotor – replies.

They end up staying up until just before dawn again. Lotor apologizes for keeping Lance up, even going as far as walking Lance up the stairs towards his room. “It’s what I’m here for,” Lance assures. “Do you have business again today?”

“Unfortunately yes,” Lotor says. “I am afraid I may need to be gone for a few days. I will do what I can to ensure that doesn’t happen but…”

“You can’t control it all,” Lance finishes. “I understand.

Lotor nods his head in a bow. “Thank you. You have free reign of the castle and the grounds, of course, aside from the locked rooms.”

“Right.”

Lance turns to head down the hallway only to be stopped by a startlingly strong grip. Cold fingers grasp his bicep, holding him in place. He turns, seeing the Count framed in front of the wall behind him. “Lance,” Lotor starts, eyes hard. “Do not wander the castle at night. Sleep only in your room.” He releases Lance once he finishes giving his unveiled warning. “Sleep well,” he says in a softer voice, continuing his ascent up the stairs.

Lance stands there, frozen for a moment. Across the staircase, a large mirror hangs. He’s never paid it much mind before, aside from checking his appearance before meeting with the Count. But this time, his gaze stays locked on his reflection. He could swear that, while Lotor was speaking, the only reflection he’d seen was his own.

Lance shudders once he’s alone in his room. Before going to sleep, he takes note of everything that happened. _Hunk_ , he writes, _things are getting strange. The Count – Lotor as I learned his true name today – has ordered me not to wander the castle at night. It is as if something dark and ancient rules these halls which he does not want me to see. He warned me not to fall asleep anywhere but my room. A part of me wishes to believe that he means me no harm, but I could swear that he didn’t have a reflection when he gave me that warning. I am starting to wonder if he is not as innocent as he appears, and you know I cannot stand an unsolved mystery. Tomorrow night, if he is still out conducting business as he said he might, I plan to see what is so horrifying he locks his doors to prevent me from finding it._

\---

Lotor isn’t back the next night. A note rests on the food left out for Lance, which he immediately reads. _I will be gone for two or three days. Please remember what I told you. Yours, Lotor_

Lance eats his food quickly, leaving before the servants – if there even are any; he isn’t sure anymore – can come clean up his plates. He pauses halfway down the hall, frozen by the thought. He’s never seen any servants, never even heard them. The only person he’s encountered here is Lotor. He’d thought before that they were prized on staying silent and out of sight, but the warning last night and the lack of reflection he swears he saw has shaken him. So Lance darts back, ready to see his dirty dishes – or maybe even catch Lotor in the act of cleaning them himself – but when he gets there the room is completely clean and empty.

He shivers.

Something is _wrong_ with this castle, and Lance is determined to find out why. He goes to the study next, one of the few places he knows is unlocked. He doesn’t expect to find anything in here, but that doesn’t stop him from looking. All the paperwork in here is legal, things about shipping boxes to London, things regarding the house Lance came here with paperwork for, nothing that says _my house is haunted and this is why Mister McClain can’t wander it by himself_.

He’s in the middle of going through the books – all seem to be simply about London and the English language – when he hears a loud crunch. Lance jumps, looking around himself, but he doesn’t see anything. Another crunch sounds, and Lance’s head snaps over.

It’s coming from outside the window.

He scrambles up and rushes over to it, but he can’t see anything through the glass. He cracks it open just enough to stick his head out and looks around. Night has fallen, making it hard to see much, but aside from that Lance can’t see anything aside from the faint trees of the forest. Another crunch makes him think something might be falling from the roof, but when he looks up there’s nothing there. Lance is about to give up when he looks down, checking the grounds.

His eyes nearly bug out of his head.

There’s a person crawling down the side of the building like a lizard. Their cloak flares out behind them, giving them the appearance of a bat, and Lance catches sight of startling white hair, loose from its normally tight braid. Lotor.

He lets out a gasp, loud enough to be heard, and throws himself back inside, leaving the window open. Lance sits there, chest heaving as he stares at the glass, but Lotor doesn’t come in. Maybe he hadn’t heard?

Lance stands up, hands shaking and looks out the window again. There’s no sign of the large, flapping cloak, no stark white hair. Lotor’s gone, and Lance had missed seeing where he went. He stares into the trees, as if he could figure out the trajectory from that alone but there’s nothing. An ominous howl fills the night, and Lance pulls his head back inside, tugging the window shut.

The only good news is that this means Lotor is truly gone, and nothing can stop him from looking around the castle as much as he wants.

With that thought in mind, Lance bursts out of the room like a bat out of hell.

Night has long since fallen, but Lance feels a thrill at disobeying Lotor’s direct wishes. He’d been smitten by the Count, as if Lotor had cast a spell on him, but the events of last night have broken it.

He wanders around the castle, starting with the upper floors to start with. As he’d noticed before, most of the doors are locked. That isn’t enough to deter him. Before Shiro had picked them up, Lance and Keith had a checkered past. In short, he knows his way around a locked door.

Lance scrounges up a few small sharp objects, not a true lock picking kit but close enough. He makes short work of the doors, exploring some of the rooms. Most of them look like storage. There are a fair few rooms filled with furniture covered by dusty cloths, as if no one has stepped foot in them for years.

Regardless, Lance explores them, looking for clues. When the third room still reveals nothing, he gives up and moves on, opening the doors and immediately closing them once he doesn’t find anything. After the tenth room yields nothing, Lance is exhausted. His pulse has been pounding since he saw Lotor sneak out the window, and though he believes he’s the only one in the castle, he can’t help the feeling of pure dread that washes over him.

The room he opens looks like an old sitting room, filled with couches and tables all covered by fabric. He tosses the cloth off the couch and collapses on it with a sigh. He’s never going to find anything. Lotor’s too good.

Or, more likely, he’s going to need to go deeper into the castle. He’s only been on the top floors, but now that he thinks about it, a dungeon or crypt or whatever it is that Lotor’s hiding is more likely to be underground. Lance makes note to check that next, but right now he’s too tired to even sit up. Lotor’s voice echoes in his mind, warning him to _sleep only in your own room_ , but Lance ignores it, falling into a slumber.

He’s not sure how long he sleeps, but one moment he’s peacefully unaware of the world, and the next his eyes are blinking open. Lance stares at the swirling dust in the room, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window. He lies there in a half-asleep state, watching the dust dance.

There’s so much dust, he can hardly believe it. It’s as if this room has been closed for tens of years, letting it all gather until it’s thick enough to twist into shapes. Lance lies there, watching the dust swirl around. A long blink later, and it’s twisted into the shape of three women, as impossibly beautiful as Lotor.

Lance keeps his eyes half closed, watching them through lowered lashes. He’s warm, despite being uncovered, and he stares at the women as they approach, trying not to give away the fact that he’s awake.

“Do you think Lotor left him here for us?” one of them asks, voice sounding like laughter. Her hair is a soft red, seeming to sparkle in the moonlight.

“He did not leave a note,” the second speaks up, voice far more serious than the first. Her hair is clipped shorter than even a boy’s, and yet it fits her beauty somehow.

The third steps up, larger than the other two, physical appearance intimidating. “I say we take him,” she says, sounding more like a war general than a maiden, “and beg for forgiveness later.”

“ _No_ , Zethrid,” the second woman demands. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” the first one giggles. Lance maintains a carefully neutral mask as she appears directly in front of him. “Just a taste,” she whispers, leaning over him.

Lance feels her breath hit his neck, goosebumps appearing over the cold. Her lips touch the skin there, a soft kiss. He has a moment to feel sharp teeth before she’s thrown bodily from him.

“Do not touch him!” a fourth voice roars. Lance immediately recognizes him as Lotor, even though he’s never before heard him so angry. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his lids all the way, not wanting them to know he’s watching.

“Lotor, we didn’t see you there,” the one called Zethrid speaks up first.

Lotor lets out a growl, shifting until he’s standing directly in front of Lance, blocking his view of the women. “Clearly,” he snarls. “Acxa, I thought I told you not to disturb my guest.”

“My apologies, my lord,” the serious one says, sounding earnest. “I did tell Ezor to leave him be but –“

“I do not want to hear it,” Lotor cuts her off, voice sharp. His cloak brushes over Lance’s face as he turns, and Lance squeezes his eyes shut all the way. He feels the Count’s cold fingers press against the skin of his neck where the woman had kissed him. “His skin is still intact,” Lotor whispers, as if speaking to himself.

“Sir,” Zethrid speaks up, “the man is a weakling, and we are hungry. Narti has yet to return from her hunt, and it has been days since we’ve fed.”

“I brought you back something,” Lotor replies. “Take it and leave us.”

“Another animal?” Ezor asks. “My lord –“

“He is **mine** , do you understand?” Lotor growls. The fingers on Lance’s neck press down almost possessively. “Now _leave us_.”

He hears rustling and footsteps disappearing. For a moment, Lance thinks they’re all gone, but then he hears the serious one, Acxa, speak again. “It has been a long time since we’ve seen you so attached to one of them. I’d thought you’d forgotten how to love.”

“I could never forget that,” Lotor replies in a whisper. “Let me know if anything changes.”

“Yes, my lord.” Her voice is followed by retreating footsteps, and Lance knows she’s gone, leaving him alone with Lotor.

The Count’s arms wrap around him, and Lance is lifted into the air as if he weighs nothing. He doesn’t dare risk opening his eyes as Lotor carries him. He has a feeling he knows where they’re going, and that feeling is proven right when a door opens and a few moments later he’s placed on a familiar mattress.

Something tickles his face, and Lance resists opening his eyes. The tickle shifts, and he realizes it’s Lotor’s hair. Lance has to hold back a cry when he feels cold breath once again on his neck. The Count’s lips press against his skin, but they’re gone in an instant. “Sleep well,” Lotor whispers. Lance hears footsteps retreat outside his room, and the door clicks shut.

\---

Somehow, Lance had managed to fall asleep after that, because the next thing he knows he’s opening his eyes to a midafternoon sun. He blinks, confused for a moment, before sitting bolt upright in bed. He smacks a hand to his neck, feeling for broken skin, but he encounters nothing different. And when he pushes the blankets off himself, he finds himself clothed in his nightshirt.

The only sign that the night before happened is his memory.

He gets out of bed and changes at lightning speed, tossing everything into his bag except his journal, which he tucks into his jacket.

Lance needs to leave this castle. Now.

He’s always been a light packer, especially since he wasn’t always able to rely on help with carrying it. Katie had poked fun at him for it before, but now? Now it might save his life.

Lance pokes his head out of the room, checking up and down the hallway. He doesn’t see anyone there, but he hadn’t expected it either. In his time here, he’s never seen Lotor before dusk. Of course, he’d never seen anyone in the castle aside from Lotor, but that had changed the night before.

“Lotor?” Lance calls, softer than he would’ve had he meant to get the Count’s attention.

When no answer predictably follows, Lance creeps out of the room and down the stairs. He clutches his bag to his chest, head on a swivel as he descends, but nothing tries to stop him. Once his feet hit the ground floor, Lance takes off in a run. His feet pad on the floor as he runs across it. He doesn’t look left or right this time, and when he reaches the door he all but throws himself against it. The door is made to pull, not a push, so he has to readjust his bag to grasp the large handle and pulls.

Nothing.

Lance tries again but still nothing. He drops his bag to the floor with a clatter, panic filling his throat as he grabs the handle with both hands and _tugs_. The door creaks with the effort, but something is holding it shut, preventing Lance from escaping. His eyes draw up the door to the top, where it meets the ceiling. There, at the very top, is a metal lock, holding it in place.

He’s trapped.

All sense of propriety disappears as the reality of the situation settles into Lance’s soul. He’s trapped in Castle Galra.

Lance looks up, staring down the hallway. He’s collapsed, back pressed against the door with his hands digging into his hair. The hallway is long, dimly lit, but Lance isn’t really looking _at_ it. He’s thinking.

Lotor had claimed to leave for a few days on business, but he had carried Lance back to his bed just the night before. Besides, Lance had seen him climb down the wall until the night after he said he was leaving.

_Climb down the wall._

That’s his way out. Lance knows he might die, but he’s not going to sit here and wait for Lotor to get back and decide that he’s not worth keeping around. He’d rather die trying to save himself than sit back and wait for the inevitable.

Lance stands, determined, and gathers his things before heading back up to his room. He takes note of everything that happened in his journal and pens a letter to Hunk before tucking that into his journal. If Lance is ever found, the letter will get to him. And if not…well he doesn’t want to think about that.

He bundles himself up in his jacket, tucking his gloves and the journal inside. The journey to the castle had taken so long, and Lance isn’t confident in his ability to get back on his own, but he also doesn’t want to waste time gathering food. Dusk is approaching, and Lance _knows_ he needs to make his escape before it does.

He throws open his window, letting the cool autumn breeze fill the room. He shivers, not from the cold, before hoisting himself out the window. At first, Lance is grateful that the castle is made of stone; the areas where the bricks have pushed out slightly while others have been worn down create natural footholds and hand holds.

Lance doesn’t look down past where he aims to move as he descends. He turns his head to the side, looking for his path, but he doesn’t let his vision drop down to the ground beneath him. It works well…until it doesn’t.

He diagonally descends his way into a dead end, unable to find any more bricks to step on. With a growl, Lance turns his head to the other side, too afraid to let go of the wall he’s clinging to. He sees another few stones there that would work, so he follows them down until he hits a dead end there and has to turn his head back in the other direction.

The path he takes is a zig zag, and Lance works his way down it, slowly and steadily, absolutely refusing to look anywhere than at the wall just beneath his feet.

Then he steps on a loose brick.

The stone shatters under his foot, and Lance lets out a yelp as he holds onto the wall for dear life. His heart pounds against his chest, which slams into the stone with every breath he takes. It takes him a few minutes to calm down from the scare, but when he does, he’s left with the knowledge that he’s not sure where to go from here. But he’s been climbing long enough that he should be at the bottom by now…right?

For the first time, Lance lets himself look down.

He nearly screams.

Somehow he’d managed to curve around the castle, because instead of the grounds beneath him, he’s looking down a cliff. The castle was built on a cliff. Lord give him strength.

Lance presses his forehead to the stone trying to calm himself down. Why, oh _why_ did he not climb out a window on the first floor? He was _downstairs_ when he came up with the idea. Why did he run back up the stairs to accomplish it?

He wasn’t _thinking_ , that’s the answer. He feels so stupid now – never mind knowing that it’s unlikely the windows would’ve been unlocked. He could’ve tried the study on the second floor. That would’ve been an easier way than _this_.

Because _this_ is a trap that Lance has wall-walked his way into. He’s stuck here and the only person who can save him is not only gone for a few days – supposedly – but is also the person he’s running _from_. God above, _why did he not at least try the windows on the first floor_?

Lance stands there until the wind pushes through his jacket, chilling him to the bone. He shivers, teeth clacking together and realizes that he needs to move. His fingers are getting stiff – all his limbs are really – and dusk is approaching fast. What he can do, what he needs to do now, is go back up to his room and find another way out. He can go down to the first floor and try the windows down there. He should have one more day before Lotor gets back. He can rest for tonight and try again tomorrow morning.

Really, this whole affair has him so strained that he could use a night to sleep. It might even help him think better. Plan in mind, Lance turns his head back in the direction he’d come from, preparing for the long climb up and around. His elbow creaks as he straightens his arm, reaching –

The stone under his left foot crumbles.

Lance lets out a shriek as he falls, hands grasping for something, anything –

His fingers wrap around stone and Lance’s body jolts as his descent stops suddenly. His shoulder screams in pain, dislocated. But it doesn’t matter; he isn’t falling anymore. Lance holds on as if his very life depends upon it. This stone is bigger than the bricks he’d been using; his entire hand wraps around it this time rather than only the tips of his fingers. With a grunt, he swings his other arm up, reaching for the same thing.

It doesn’t take a lot to find it, and soon he’s gripping the wall with both hands. It feels like a window sill. Lance finally gets the strength to look up, and sure enough, it is a window sill. Using mostly his right arm, now that his left is worthless, and his feet, he scrambles up. Lance pushes on the window, and to his surprise, it opens.

He pushes himself all the way up and in, falling over onto the other side. He hits the ground with a thud that expells all the air from his lungs in a rush. The floor is cold and made of stone, but at least it wasn’t so far below the window that he would’ve broken something.

Lance rolls onto his back and lies there, staring at the dim light outside. The sun is setting. His journey out the window and into this one had taken so long that he’d missed his opportunity.

With a grunt, Lance sits up. He cradles his left arm to his chest, wincing as pain shoots down from his shoulder to his fingers. Not being able to use his left arm is going to make everything a lot harder. Finally, he looks around.

This room isn’t one Lance has ever been inside. It’s dark and dank, lit only by the waning sun through the window. The musty scent of earth fills his nostrils as Lance forces himself upright. He hadn’t realized the castle went this deep, but it shouldn’t surprise him; the Count is full of secrets after all.

Lance walks around until he finds an old fashioned torch. Fluid and matches are sitting on a table nearby, so Lance lights it before the sun can set all the way. And then he gets a real look around.

The room is large and entirely made of stone. He’s somewhere in the depths of the castle – likely at the very bottom. The scent of earth is clearly coming from the dirt scattered around the room. There’s a large wooden door off to his left, but otherwise this room seems to be used for storage.

Unlike the storage rooms in the upper floor of the castle, which are filled with dusty furniture covered with dustier cloths, this room is filled with boxes of varying shapes and sizes. This must be the secret Lance had been searching for.

If he’s not going to be able to escape tonight, the least he can do is solve the mystery that is the Count. Lance sweeps the torch around, looking at the different boxes. Most of them are nailed shut, and he’s in no condition to try and break into them. But one in the corner of the room has already been pried open. Lance sets the torch in the wall holder nearby and peels the lid off the rest of the way.

Clothing. Nothing special stands out at first, but that doesn’t stop Lance from going through the box. He sifts through the cloth until he finds a small painting, old and worn on the corners. He brings the picture up, looking at it in the light…

And drops it.

It’s a painting of the woman, Acxa, from the night before alongside Lotor. The thing that startles Lance is the the background. It looks as if it had been made before Castle Galra had been completed. The castle is half-built in the background, and Lance knows for a fact that it had been built centuries prior.

This confirms his suspicions: Lotor isn’t human.

Lance should have been able to piece things together earlier, especially when he’d seen the man climbing down the wall like a lizard. He’d heard the rumors in the village, the whisperings of ‘ _do not go there tonight of all nights_ ’ and he knows that people out here have their superstitions regarding Walpurgis Night. For good reason, as it turns out.

A rush of cool air fills the room, pushed through the window, and Lance suddenly hears the sickening sound of scratching. He jumps, hair raising at the back of his neck. Lance grabs the torch, holding it out from him to illuminate the room. He doesn’t _see_ anything, but he knows he wasn’t imagining it.

Lance stands still, barely breathing. And then, he hears it again.

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._

It’s coming from his left. Lance turns and sees a wooden door he hadn’t noticed before, much smaller than the one leading into the room. Hair standing on end, Lance approaches it, holding his breath. The dirt in front of the door is untouched, as if it hasn’t been walked upon in years. All his nerves are telling him to get out, _now_ , but he thinks: what if he’s not the only one?

The path that led him here was almost too easy, as if designed to lead someone from the window on the third floor down to the deep pit of a basement that he’s in. Maybe this had happened to someone before, and that scratching he hears is the sound of someone trying to dig their way out of the castle.

Lance knows it’s a longshot; he knows it’s unlikely. But the _what if_ plays itself out in his head, and he’s always been incapable of not helping someone in need. So he places his ear on the door, holding his breath.

_Scratch, scratch, scratch_.

One thing is for sure: the sound isn’t coming from the door itself. Whatever is in there is scratching at something that isn’t the door. Aside from that, though, Lance can’t identify anything. He can’t tell if the thing in there is human or even _alive_. It could just be a loose piece of wood, scraping against the floor in the breeze.

He reaches out with his left hand, wincing and biting his lip to keep himself from making any noise. He needs to keep his grip on the torch in his more useful hand. Who knows what will come out of the room. He needs to be prepared to use his only weapon, just in case. Lance turns the handle, pushing the door.

With a soft groan, the door opens. The room is windowless, immediately banishing the theory of the scratching being caused by the breeze. Lance doesn’t see anything aside from a large mound in the middle of the room, so he steps inside. He stands in the doorway long enough to make sure the door won’t swing shut, locking him in here, before stepping forward towards the mound. The scratching starts up again, and he can tell that there’s something inside the mound, making that noise.

The thought occurs to him that this is a trap set by the Count himself, meant to lure Lance down here. After all, he’d seen too much with the women the night before. But a morbid curiosity tickles at the back of his mind, and Lance can’t leave the mystery unsolved, especially now that he’s come so far.

Warily, Lance approaches the mound. As the light from his torch shines over it, he catches a glimpse of a damp blanket, covering something underneath. Lance notices water dropping from the ceiling, the sound muffled by the drops hitting the blanket. Lance has no doubt it was set there to keep whatever is underneath from getting wet, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing it up to look.

The blanket is covering a large box sitting atop a mound of dirt.

Lance pushes the blanket all the way off, letting it crumple to the floor on the other side in a wet heap. It wasn’t simply damp, it was _drenched_ , the water from above having dripped through for long enough to soak the blanket entirely. The blanket no longer holds any interest for Lance though. The box underneath does.

Small flowers, smell masked by the blanket are scattered across the lid. Lance sweeps them to the side along with the wet dust that had gathered on it, catching a whiff of garlic as he does. Something metallic clatters to the floor, and when Lance lowers the torch to see what it is, he finds a silver cross. He frowns. Shouldn’t the cross be _in_ the box?

It doesn’t matter, because Lance hears the scratching again, louder this time, coming from inside the box. It sounds like nails, clawing at the wood. He tells himself that the box is probably filled with straw and that mice have gotten in there and are making the noises. But then he raises the torch and looks properly at the box.

It’s a coffin.

Lance stumbles backwards at the realization, tripping over his own feet. Something _inside a coffin_ is scratching to get out.

He turns and runs.

Lance races through the large room until he hits the door. He spares a glance in either direction before pushing the door open – it gives easily – and rushes through the corridor on the other side. It’s narrow, stone, and made of shallow steps that slowly lead up, but that doesn’t slow him down.

He hits the top of the stairs, still running on adrenaline, and shoves against the door that he hits there, ignoring the spike of pain in his shoulder. The door up here is heavier than the one below, but he opens it without any issue. Lance gets through and slams it shut, leaning back against it as he catches his breath.

It doesn’t feel like a door.

Lance steps away from it, looking around. He’s in what appears to be the library. The “door” he’d just come through is a bookshelf. A secret door which is no doubt triggered by a mechanism that he doesn’t have any interest in finding right now.

Right now, he needs to get out.

Waiting until the morning is the smarter plan, but Lance can’t stay in this castle for a single second longer. The library has a window, and this one is much closer to the ground than the one he’d originally climbed out of. He swears he hears noises coming from the other side of the bookshelf, but he isn’t going to hang around to find out.

Lotor might have been smart enough to lock Lance in the castle, but he wasn’t smart enough to check all the windows. This one is latched, true, but the latch is on the inside, and Lance is easily able to get it open. He keeps his hold on the torch as he sticks his head out, making sure that he’s on the right side of the castle.

He is.

The grounds are below him, leading off towards the forest. The drop to the ground is a little farther than Lance would like, but it won’t kill him. He tosses the torch out first, watching it roll on the ground. It doesn’t extinguish, and the grass doesn’t immediately catch on fire, which is good enough for him.

He throws himself out next, rolling as soon as he hits the ground to soften the blow. The fall is still jarring, and Lance can’t help but let out a grunt when he lands, air once again pushed out of his lungs forcibly. He grabs the torch before it can set anything on fire and runs off into the woods as fast as he can.

Lance doesn’t make it far before he has to stop and lean heavily against a tree trunk. His shoulder is burning, his chest is on fire, and his fingers are already frozen from being exposed to the cold. He can see his breath puffing out of his mouth with every heave of his chest.

A howl sounds nearby, causing Lance to shiver. He has to move. Briefly, he registers that it’s a good thing he isn’t bleeding as well, because the wolves would find him faster if he were. As it is, he’s sure they already smell him and are already converging on him.

The threat of wolves don’t scare him as much as the thought of Lotor finding him. If the wolves appear, he’ll climb a tree and wait them out until morning. If Lotor finds him, though, he’s dead.

With that sobering thought in mind, Lance starts walking. He doesn’t have the energy to run any further, and he needs to conserve what little he has for when a threat appears. So instead he holds his torch out in front of him and moves steadily away from the castle. He doesn’t know which direction to go, but he believes he’s bound to find something or someone if he keeps walking.

“What do we have here?”

Lance squeaks, nearly dropping the torch as he jumps. He whips around, looking for whoever said that, but he sees nothing.

“Behind you,” the voice says. It’s gruffer and deeper than Lotor’s own and yet sounds just as threatening, if not more so.

Lance spins, letting out a gasp when he sees who is standing behind him. Or, rather, what is standing behind him.

It don’t look human, resembling something like a skeleton instead. It grins, sharp white teeth shining in the torchlight and takes a step towards Lance.

His torch goes out.

Lance screams, but the sound is cut short by a tight grip on his neck, choking him. “Be quiet, human,” the thing says, voice coming out in a growl. Its thumb scrapes across Lance’s cheek, nail scratching him without breaking the skin. “So,” it says, “you must be the human pet my wayward son allowed to wander the halls of my castle.”

Even if Lance knew what it was talking about, he couldn’t respond. His air has been completely cut off, and he’s slowly growing light headed. The thing’s nails dig into the sensitive skin of his neck, drawing blood this time. To Lance’s horror, the thing leans in and _sniffs_.

“I smell your fear, boy,” it purrs, hold loosening around Lance’s neck enough for him to breathe a little. Lance feels something wet against his neck and belatedly realizes that it’s _licking him_. His entire body tenses, shaking at the rigidity at which he’s holding himself. “It has been so long,” the thing exhales. It smells of death and decay.

The thing’s other hand presses against Lance’s chest, pushing his back up against the nearest tree. Lance flails, dropping his useless torch to the ground as his back hits. The thing isn’t gentle with him, and even if Lance weren’t bruised from his adventure earlier, he absolutely is now. “Please,” he hears himself pleading. His voice is weak, shaky, and that does nothing but make the thing laugh.

“You are in no position to beg. But do not worry, boy, your fear will be ended soon.”

And then two sharp teeth bury themselves in his neck.

Lance screams.

If the thing is bothered by the sound, it doesn’t show it. His scream dies a natural death as the situation resolves itself around him. Lance hears the unmistakable sound of slurping, feels his extremities getting colder.

It’s drinking his blood.

His head grows lighter as the thing continues to drain him, and Lance knows: he’s going to die like this. Pressed against a tree, silently being drained of blood, Lance is going to die.

And then.

A sharp pain stings his throat, and suddenly the thing is ripped away from him. Lance slumps to the ground, passively watching it fly through the air in an arc illuminated by the moon. His head lolls to the side as he struggles to maintain consciousness.

Someone is standing in front of him with their back to him, arms thrown out as if to protect him. Lance’s first thought is that it’s Hunk, but no. That’s not right. Hunk doesn’t have white hair.

“Get away from him, father,” his protector snarls. Lance knows that voice. How does he know that voice?

He hears a returning snarl and assumes it’s the thing, but he can’t see it from here. “A human pet, Lotor? I thought you would have learned your lesson after the last one.”

_Lotor_. Despite the lightheadedness, Lance’s memories come back. Combined with the blood loss, it’s too much. He leans over and retches, emptying bile onto the ground next to him.

“Disgusting,” the thing says, and Lance can practically hear the curl of its lip. “Is this really what you have become? Desperate enough to spite me that you brought _this_ home?”

“What I do is none of your concern,” Lotor snaps.

“I will not allow a weakling to run my castle!” With a shout, the thing leaps. Lance sees it framed against the sky for a moment, shaped like a giant bat, before it falls. He doesn’t have time to move, and even if he did he doesn’t have the energy.

None of that matters.

Lotor draws something that looks like a large pointed stick and buries it in the thing’s chest as it lands on him. It lets out an inhuman screech as Lotor throws the thing away from where Lance is still collapsed. He hears a sickening thud as it hits the ground.

“You are weak,” Lotor spits, “and I should have killed you long ago.” He tilts his head. “Ladies, the time has come: _finish him off_.”

Four figures leap out of the trees, landing around them soundlessly. For a moment, Lance thinks that this is it – they’re here to take him. But instead he hears sinister laughter as they all converge on the writhing body of the thing Lotor had speared.

Lance’s head slumps forward once he realizes he’s not in danger, eyelids growing heavy. He doesn’t hear Lotor approach, but two feet appear in front of him as cold hands grab at him. “Lance?” Lotor asks, voice soft. His touch jostles Lance’s shoulder, and Lance lets out a soft groan. “You are hurt,” Lotor says, almost accusing.

“’M alive,” Lance breathes, chest burning with the effort.

Lotor’s arms wrap around him, pulling him up. Lance would’ve fought it, but he’s too weak to protest much so his head falls against Lotor’s chest instead. “Do not look down,” Lotor instructs.

Lance gets the distinct sense that they’re moving somewhere, fast. He sees the outlines of treetops, hears the howls of wolves grow closer then more distant, and feels cold wind hit his cheeks. This time, he obeys Lotor and doesn’t look down. Even if he’d wanted to, Lance is in no state to disobey him; he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open as it is.

He takes a long blink, opening his eyes when he hears Lotor’s voice again. “Lance, I need you to wake up. Stay with me.”

The blink must’ve lasted longer than Lance thought. Lamplight hits his eyes, causing him to clamp them shut immediately. It takes him a second to adjust, but when he does he looks around.

He’s lying in bed – his guest bed in Castle Galra – no longer in Lotor’s arms. His arm is extended out to the side, hand hanging off the edge of his bed and his sleeve is rolled up past his elbow. Lance trails his eyes over to where Lotor’s voice came from and sees his own sleeve rolled up as the Count sorts through tools Lance doesn’t recognize.

“What are you doing?” he asks, tongue heavy in his throat.

Lotor doesn’t look up, instead wiping down a needle with a cloth. “You lost a lot of blood,” the Count explains. “I am going to give you some of mine.”

Lance twitches. “Aren’t you…?” He doesn’t know the word for it. Hasn’t listened enough to the tales to know if there is one.

“A _strigoi_?” Lotor finishes for him. He taps the needle before sticking it in his arm. Lance turns his head away, not wanting to get sick. “This might hurt a little.”

There’s a small poke followed by the strange sense of something solid _in his arm_. Lotor’s finger stays pressed against the inside of Lance’s elbow, holding whatever it is in place, and after a moment Lance feels the strangest sensation of something warm rushing into his veins.

He gasps. “What is that?”

“My blood.”

Disbelieving, Lance turns his head, but sure enough he can see a red tube connecting him and the Count. “I think I’m going to be sick,” Lance declares.

“Look away then,” Lotor snaps.

Lance does, taking deep breaths to keep the nausea at bay. It’s easier as warmth returns to his extremities and cheeks. After what feels like forever, Lotor presses down on the crook of his elbow, and Lance feels the needle slide out. Something soft replaces Lotor’s finger and the Count says, “Hold this please.”

Lance puts pressure on the cloth there, turning to look now that it seems safe to do so. Lotor is wrapping his own arm, needle already gone before he grabs another cloth. “Move your fingers,” he instructs. Lance obeys and Lotor wraps his arm up deftly. “You will need to rest for a while, no matter how strong you feel now,” Lotor tells him, his own face looking a little paler than normal.

“What about you?”

“I am fine.” The Count scoops up his supplies, standing smoothly. “Excuse me.”

“Wait,” Lance demands, sitting up. “Tell me what’s going on.”

The expression on Lotor’s face is pained, and he won’t meet Lance’s eyes. “Later,” he promises. “I must go.”

\---

Lance rests, as instructed, finding this demand easy to follow. He feels stronger, but his journey around the castle and the encounter in the woods left him emotionally and physically exhausted. He falls asleep easily and doesn’t wake up until late the next day, when the sun is already high in the sky. He stays in bed, wondering how he’s supposed to explain _this_ in his diary before his stomach rumbles, reminding him why he woke up in the first place.

He washes up and changes into a clean set of clothes, noting that his journal and the letter to Hunk both are missing. There’s nothing else for him to do, though, and he hasn’t eaten for over a day by now, so he heads out of his room and down the stairs.

His chest doesn’t hurt like it did the day before, and somehow his shoulder has been re-located. All the pain from it is gone at the very least. Lance feels like a new man; as if the night before hadn’t even happened.

When he gets to the dining room, Lotor is seated at one end, a spread of food across the table in a spot clearly meant for Lance. He’s reading something, and as Lance gets closer, he recognizes the back cover of his journal

The Count looks up when he sees Lance, snapping his journal shut. He motions to the seat across from him. “Please, sit. Eat. You must be hungry.”

Lance means to counter him, but his stomach chooses that time to let out a growl, so instead he does as asked. He concentrates on his food, ignoring the fact that Lotor is watching him eat, the same thing he’d done that first night they’d met. When Lance’s stomach is no longer protesting the lack of food, he sets his fork down.

“It’s later,” he starts. At Lotor’s blank expression, he clarifies, “We should talk.”

Lotor sighs, resigned. “I suppose we should.”

He doesn’t seem any more forthcoming than that, so Lance takes that as his cue to speak. “What is a _sti…gri_?” he asks, not quite remembering the word Lotor had used the night before.

“ _Strigoi_ ,” Lotor corrects. “It is the locals’ term for living dead, creatures who drink the blood of living creatures in order to maintain their level of ‘alive’.”

“Uh…” Lance flounders a bit. “Sorry, I don’t understand. How can something dead be living?”

Lotor nods. “It is a state of ‘undead’, if you will. Something which was dead but still walks around as if it is living. Some may call it the secret of immortality. However the locals consider it a curse, never a blessing. _Strigoi_ pass on this curse by feeding on a human’s blood.”

“So you’re one of these ‘undead’? A _strigoi_?”

“Not exactly.”

“Can you be a little clearer then?” Lance snaps. “If you continue to wait for me to happen upon the right questions, we will be here until I die.”

Lotor doesn’t look irritated with Lance’s demand. If anything, he seems ashamed. “Very well. My father was a _strigoi_ ; he was the one you encountered last night. He was original Count of this castle and the reason the myths you heard in the village exist. I am his son, but I am not a full _strigoi_. They would call me a _dhampir_ , a half-breed. That is why I am able to be here with you now, in the daytime.”

“We aren’t in the sun though,” Lance mentions, frowning.

“Sunlight is still…unpleasant for me. I am not certain if that holds true for all. I have never met any others.”

“What about the women? What are they?” Lance presses.

Lotor’s finger taps on Lance’s journal. “Yes, I did read that you were awake that night. Had I known…”

“You would’ve killed me,” Lance finishes for him.

Lotor gives him a scandalized look. “Of course not.” When Lance raises his eyebrows, Lotor concedes. “I would not have killed you. I would have tried to take your memory or make you otherwise not trust it. And I would have been right in doing so; it was that event which caused you to attempt your escape. I do not know how you freed my father, but it must have been you. The others assured me it was not them.”

“I scaled the castle,” Lance admits.

“But you are human.”

“I used the stones as footholds and climbed out my window. They wrapped around to the other side of the castle, and I…fell into that room.”

Lotor’s eyes are wide as he stares at Lance. “You are either very stupid or very skilled.”

“A little of both, probably,” Lance says with a soft smile. To his surprise, Lotor returns it. Lance’s heart beats hard against his chest, his face flushing. In all his fear, he’d forgotten how beautiful the Count is.

“Why’d you lock me in?” he prompts when Lotor doesn’t say anything.

Lotor’s eyes shift to the side. “I did not want you to leave. The woods are not safe, not for a human, and I was not lying when I said I needed to be gone for a bit.”

“What business does a _dhampir_ have?”

“Not…business, exactly.”

“What was it then?”

Lotor shifts in his seat. “It has been…a long time since I have had a human so close for such a period. I needed to feed before I could give into certain temptations.”

Lance swallows. He decides quickly he doesn’t want to know any of the other details. “Your father, he drank my blood. Does that mean I’ll become like him? You said they pass on the curse by feeding on blood.”

“No,” Lotor says firmly. “My father meant to kill you. We have the ability to choose if we pass our curse on.”

“And your blood?”

“My blood is what healed you. The additional strength will not last forever; eventually your blood will take over mine once more within your body.”

Lance nods. “You never answered me about the women.”

“They are _strigoi_ ,” Lotor replies simply. “They are ones I turned before I learned to control myself, and they have become my closest confidents. Of course, as true _strigoi_ they have a harder time controlling their hunger. I had to keep them from you.”

“Are they the servants?”

“No.”

“Then who’s been preparing the food and making my bed?”

A flush of color lights up Lotor’s cheeks. “I have. I do not have any servants.”

So far, the mystery appears to have been solved. Only one question remains. “What about London?”

Lotor’s brow furrows in confusion. “What _about_ London?”

“Why are you moving to England?” Lance specifies.

“I need to leave this place. My father may be dead for good now, but that does not mean I have a life here. I wish to start over in London, and I had wanted to practice my English with a true Englishman before leaving.”

“You aren’t planning to terrorize the people of London?”

“Only those who deserve it. Cities are filled with killers and thieves, more than rural areas. I would not have to be gone for so long just to find one.”

“You’re going to take the law into your own hands?” Lance asks, incredulous.

Lotor’s shoulders droop. “If you do not wish me there, then I will not go,” he promises. “I will pay you what money your company has lost in this arrangement as well as compensation for your troubles, but if you do not –“

“I never said that,” Lance interrupts. He reaches forward on impulse, taking Lotor’s hand. It’s as cold as ice. “If you want to go to London, you should. I promised before that you would have a friend there.”

Lotor smiles, soft and small, but it has the same effect on Lance now as it had earlier, if not more so. “Lance,” Lotor whispers earnestly, “perhaps my intentions were not made clear. I want…more than friendship from you.”

A day ago, Lance would’ve run screaming from the room, terrified at the thought of something inhuman wanting him. A week ago, Lance would’ve thrown himself into Lotor’s arms, ignorant of the truth about the Count. Now, he knows everything.

“I want that too,” Lance promises. “Come back to London with me, Lotor. I will give you the grand tour.”

Lotor’s smile widens, revealing sharp teeth. It’s a sight that will take some getting used to, Lance realizes, but he thinks he’s up for the challenge. “I would like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone catch all the things Lance did that freed Zarkon? There's one that you might not catch because I didn't explicitly call it out. ;) Leave any Easter eggs you found in the comments! I left some from the book, Young Frankenstein, and VLD itself.
> 
> [this dialogue](https://rinthegreat.tumblr.com/post/166449893772/i-scrapped-this-dialogue-from-my-halloween-fic) was cut when i decided to try and keep the tone of the original, rather than making it a comedy.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://rinthegreat.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/rinthegreat_ao3) to see what I'm working on and how to support me!
> 
> oh and: HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!


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